Reviews

I started watching this under the assumption that it was some other movie, similarly titled. What reeled before me was one of the worst written, worse directed, worst played, worst lit, worst sound-mixed, etc., etc. (ad nauseam) pieces of amateurism that I have ever been tortured with.

So bad it was, I had to do a little research and find out what rock this crawled from under. Turns out that a Baptist church in the sleepy town of Albany, GA (where else?) produces "films" such as this within the confines of the church and surrounding community, under the direction of two of its pastors -- both of whom are wannabe Hollywood-types. Jethro Bodine, your time has come.

An attempt to legitimize the cast by bringing in Kirk Cameron does less than nothing to help. Most of the remaining cast is of high school-play quality. High school plays aren't all that bad, but they are usually considered spectacular only by the homefolks.

So...what we have here is an honest piece of Holy Crap. I used to think how dangerous it might be to allow assault weapons into the hands of untrained idiots. I've reconsidered, and perhaps legislation should be introduced that makes it a felony to put a camera & crew at the command of anyone who hasn't come up the ranks the hard way (you know what I mean).

This whole experience has reminded me of my personal sourness toward churches in general...instead of using money and resources to feed, clothe, house and job-train hungry people or heal the sick, they'd rather entertain. Instead of really taking compassion on their communities and serving real needs, they'd rather pretend to be Cecil B. DeMille, or in this case, Ed Wood. After all, they've got the bucks to do it.

Maybe the Baptist church in Albany, GA could open a film school...they could call it the UCLA ("Unaccredited Complete Losers Academy") Film School. Hey, if God is allowing half the world to kill itself, this could at least be a good reason to want to die.

For those who appreciate the somewhat offbeat and irreverent humor of the seminal seasons of SNL, this is a consistent hoot. Take the SNL set, band and staff of writers, include the three female components of the cast; then add two comic geniuses -- in the form of Bob & Ray -- and the results are simply incredible.

I was on a business trip in Dallas the night this first aired; TV was not what I would have considered to be prime Saturday evening entertainment when I was 23 years old, single and on the road. But circumstances being what they were, I settled back for what would become one of the most memorable hours in the history of the medium.

The ladies performed at their peak (it has been stated in another persons' pathetic evaluation that Gilda was 'grossly undertalented' -- one would have to be a senseless robot to make such a judgment) and took their cues and immaculate timing from the seasoned masters, Misters Elliott and Goulding. Having worked with the latter pair some during the 1970s, my elevated expectations for this event were more than exceeded.

All the sketches were of that deadpan-sarcastic take on the everyday world that had become a trademark for Bob & Ray; this, mixed with the fresh irreverence and downright sexiness of Gilda, Laraine and Jane, made for a sensory alchemy that had never been before, nor has been replicated since. Nuances such as brief cutaways to 'live promos' ("contestants are served unlimited quantities of toast") stick in my mind and clearly demonstrate that no stone was left unturned for an entire hour.

I don't know if this episode -- which was promoted and aired as a 'special' -- has been packaged for retail, but I'm ready to buy it as soon as I see it on a shelf.

Well, if calling this final episode to one of the most popular TV sitcoms in history "awful" makes me a bad guy, then so be it.

I've watched this several times, always trying as hard as heck to like it, and the truth is, it is just a bad piece of work. There are so many subplots and concurrent stories going on you almost think that someone's switching channels on you. In this one episode of M*A*S*H, Hawkeye finally flips out, gets cured, the war ends, etc., etc., and a couple of dozen other stories get told in the meantime. It's almost like watching all the SuperBowl commercials.

But what makes this program finally break down (and gets me laughing off my Lazy-Boy) is the "show & tell" near the end, where nearly every member of the cast gets up, a la first-grade schoolroom, and formally states what they wanna be when they get home (Rizzo: "I'm going' home to Louisiana to be a pig farmer"). I gave eleven years of my life just to learn what the supporting actors plan to be in their fictional, non-televised, postwar lives?

The producers - and Alan Alda, the life of the show - certainly wanted to give M*A*S*H an auspicious sendoff to the eternal Great Beyond of reruns, and millions of loyal M*A*S*Heads expected no less than that. Sorry, you guys tried a little too hard. But that's what you get when you write and produce television by committee.

By the way, did Rizzo get his wish? I think about him every time I see a pork chop.

This is the program my friends and I would watch in the evening; then spend our days cutting up cardboard boxes to make our own "Supercars" (and, of course, each of us was Mike Mercury).

Supercar could do absolutely anything, go absolutely anywhere and get out of absolutely any nail-biting jam. What was great about Supercar was that it didn't rely on any previous-show precedent for design or capabilities...if Supercar needed new features, good ol' Doctor Beaker and Professor Popkiss just added them!

Comic relief came in the form of Mitch (some sort of anthropomorphic monkey), and the Dr. and the Professor (who tended to bumble). I never really understood why Jimmy was there, but I figured he was the luckiest kid on earth. So my friends and I would watch each episode, living vicariously through Jimmy, then construct our banana-box Supercars, complete with all of the most recent episode's modifications.

Now, that was truly TV for a kid's imagination! Just think what would happen if it played in 2005, with Dr. James Dobson watching like a hawk -- three men, a boy and a monkey living together!

The plot and the character, Paladin (which is not actually the gunfighter's name; he takes the moniker after being challenged by a character named Smoke) were ahead of the times for 1957. Paladin is a multilingual gentleman of letters who sees no need for macho bravado, is a champion of human rights (regardless of race or nationality) and who proves that real men can be literate, eloquent, and even wear a satin robe.

Having viewed the Columbia House re-release of twenty-one episodes of "Have Gun", it amazes me how much Paladin is a renaissance man. Paladin laughs up his sleeve as his adversaries fumble in comic absurdity, trying to prove just how masculine they are. Psychology, not a pistol, often is the weapon of choice. Even so, after twenty-two minutes of clever strategy and elocution, the fist and the forty-four are often called upon to end the story, lest we run out of time.

No small surprise that "Have Gun" provided writer Gene Roddenberry with a creative garden to develop ideas for another series (deemed by the omniscient sages of networkdom to be "too cerebral"), "Star Trek".